The Catalyst
by Zeech
Summary: A persistent coma has Eames trapped in the purgatory of Limbo. Arthur goes to Hell and back to bring him out, but Eames' grief has created a new world and a new identity; a code Arthur cannot crack. Slash. Elements of the film Warrior. A/E; A/Tommy
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I saw Warrior, I loved Warrior, and I wanted to bring Eames and Tommy together into somewhat of the same character. I haven't stopped Volatile, but this idea wouldn't budge until I did something about it. It will be about four or five parts, no longer, I promise! =) In order to understand this, all the character quirks of Limbo, you should see the movie. Hope you guys enjoy!

**The Catalyst**

_To get back up to the shining world from there, my guide and I went into that hidden tunnel; where we came forth, and once more saw the stars._

**Dante's Inferno**

"Eames… Eames, listen to me!"

The Forger moans, and digs his fingers into his short hair, and claw them down his face—Arthur's pleas fall on deaf ears. There is no point to this, Eames will not hear him. Eames cradles his brother's lifeless body in one bloody arm, and the weapon used to take that life is shaking against his temple. Tears and saliva mingle with still running blood down his chin and neck as he screams up into the black starless sky; no words, just raw, primal grief. There is nothing Arthur can do to comfort him, nothing he has not tried a thousand times before. "Don't do this—do you hear me? Eames, don't do this, you just have to trust me… please—we're waiting, we're just waiting for a kick!" Any second now, the kick will bring the world rushing back, and the calm of reality will return; but only if Eames is alive, and Eames cannot not hear him. Not here, because Down Here, Eames is not Eames. "I know it hurts, I know you blame yourself but you have to trust me. None of this was your fault—none of it, please put the gun down."

Instead, Eames cocks the weapon and takes a deep, shuddering break. Arthur's hand shoots out to the thin air to stop him. "NO! No, please, please don't. Please don't, just listen," he takes half a step forward, stooped to eye level, reaching out but Eames shakes his head, and his eyes are screwed shut so hard his tears roll in tracks down his blood streaked face. "Just trust me, Eames. This will all be over soon. Remember what I told you. Remember what I promised…"

"Over?" Eames whispers, a harsh sound passing through gritted teeth. He shakes his head again, and twists the gun into his hair. "Is he—in your world, is he alive?"

Arthur cannot lie. He exhales, hard, and can only reply brokenly, "No. No he's not, but just listen to me—"

"I'm going where he's going," Eames' eyes open, one at a time, and his lips are pale and trembling. "I'm sorry."

"Eames, he's not—" the crack sears through the evening air, a rush of red, yellow, and thunder, and the Forger has joined the crumpled heap with his brother. In the seconds before the dream is collapsed, and the purgatory ends its last track, Arthur bites back his own grief, and reaches out to stroke a piece of damp hair out of Eames' closed eyes. Pain is still etched on the beautiful features, and as the ground and sky begin to shatter around them, Arthur only murmurs his name.

"Eames," he breathes, between the black, and the beginning, and the end. "Why won't you trust me."

…

"I've done it all," Arthur moans, his face pressed into his sleeve and his arms crossed, up against the hotel room wall. His body slackens with exhaustion, and a heavy grief. "I've tried everything, I've lived that life a thousand times over and it always ends the same. Nothing ever changes, and no matter what does change, it always ends the same. He never waits for the kick." The others in the room are quiet. They are unsure of what to say, or how to comfort the Point Man. Ariadne takes a step forward, and reaches out to flatten a hand against his shoulder, curling her fingers in the material of his shirt in an attempt at a tender gesture.

"There's something we're missing. There's a piece to all of this that we just can't see yet, but it _will_ reveal itself, Arthur," her words are soft, and certain. "Every time he has made a connection with reality, it has been with you. Every time we're close, it is because of you. Don't give up on him now."

Arthur's body is heavy against the wall. His will is failing. "And what if he's trapped in this loop because of me? What if I'm preventing him from finding whatever keeps taking him back there?"

Dom's arms are folded, and his gaze does not leave the floor. Distantly, he replies, "No way to know."

"That doesn't mean giving up on him!" Ariadne insists angrily, whipping around. "We promised each other, if any of us ever fell down there-we promised _him,_ we would always find _peace_, if nothing else!"

"All I'm saying," Dom continues, in that grave, cryptic tone. "Is that we don't know what goes on down there without us. All we know, is the results, the ripples we create when we insert ourselves into his new reality. What if he _is_ at peace, and we're what's keeping him from—" Dom catches himself, before he says the words Arthur may not forgive him for. "—from _finding_ that peace, whatever it means."

Arthur listens to them bicker, and argue, and he feels himself sink further into the wall. He feels hopelessness around him, as though it were something tangible, and if he cannot crawl out of it soon it will smother him. And he will be trapped, too.

…

"Why won't you trust me?"

"I don't trust people who find serenity with giant… aquatic…. Killing machines," Arthur does his best to keep from the edge. They stand alone on a plane of glass in the middle of an ocean, and all around them swim the largest creatures of the sea. Fins, black and silver, circle in what Arthur cannot decide to either be a hunting pattern, or just a pod of dolphins. Eames has a sick sense of how to train one in the dreamscape. He knows Arthur fears the ocean. "So… you have about four or five seconds to tell me the point of this little exercise before I blow my brains out and wake up in a lawn chair, ecstatic with joy because I'm not on a piece of glass in the middle of the Pacific."

"There are no weapons here," Eames reminds him, gently, but cruelly. "I thought you may take that way out. You're unarmed. Your only way out is to drown."

Arthur jerks his head around to regard Eames through narrowed eyes, and a clenched jaw. "You are an _asshole_."

"I didn't bring you out here to torture you, Arthur," there is a light laughter on the edge of his words. He reaches out, and the tips of his fingers just touch the other's shoulder. "I brought you out here to trust me."

"You're doing a bang-up job, really," he can hear his voice getting rough. He can feel his own irrationalities creeping up on him, over his skin, under his skin. The scope seems to get even wider, and all he wants to do is close within himself, to fold his body into the smallest position possible, and keep himself as far from the edge as he can. But Eames is here, and so he cannot. "Can you get to the point?"

"I'm at the point. Don't draw within yourself, like you want to. Don't shrink from the edge, like you want to. Embrace it. It's there—and you're either going to drown, or you're going to swim with them."

"You're out of your mind," Arthur's hand slides to the small of his back instinctively, for a weapon he knows is not there. Just beneath his feet the dark blue is disturbed, and something gargantuan in size, textured, and blacker than the depths moves slowly under them, and when it sinks further in to the darkness the water all around them ripples, and spills over the plane of glass, over their shoes, and almost to their knees before it recedes again. Arthur wants to vomit. He can only stifle his fear so much longer.

There is simply nowhere to feel safe here—he cannot back away from the edge, because the edge is always less than a foot or two away from him. He cannot lower himself to the ground and take the comfort of blending in because Eames made the 'ground' a transparent strip of glass, and he is no safer there than he is in the water. There is nowhere to run, and no bullet to save him.

"Why are you doing to this me?"

…

It is hard to say exactly how they meet, each and every time, but they always do. It is as though Eames is drawn to him, without even knowing his name, or remembering his face. Even here, where Eames is not Eames, and the parts of him that are still himself are buried deeper than Arthur could first imagine, Eames is still drawn to him. The days pass by, long and surreal, and it becomes harder and harder for one to not lose themselves in this purgatory. Arthur has struggled with it himself, and maintaining a constant sense of self awareness down here is like trying not to get swept up into a rip current. He must always swim alongside it, and never try to challenge it more than he may.

And yet, he must always do his best to challenge it a little more with each passing day, and night, because it is times like these, when Eames comes to his door on a rainy Monday night, wet, hair plastered to his head, and droplets of water cling like diamondsto his lashes, that Arthur lets him in. Eames—or Tommy, the identity he has adopted down here—needs him in that way Arthur used to need him. It is not a clear understanding of the implications of such an action, just a need, and a single emotion that draws him here.

He seldom speaks when he shows up on Arthur's doorstep, and Arthur does not challenge him to do so. He steps back and allows the other man to shake the moisture off his hoodie, and shed it, and his t-shirt, and his undershirt like a second and third skin, revealing the inked and muscled body Arthur knows so well. He has considerably more of that muscle in this reality—comes with the territory, of course—but it is still Eames. Tommy closes the distance between them, and takes what used to be his Point Man's face in large, calloused hands, pressing their foreheads together and breathing him in like a memory he cannot place, but cannot lose.

Arthur never lets him linger here, uncertain. In life, Eames is comfortable with who he is, comfortable with his body, Arthur's body—this incarnation is quite the opposite. Down here, Eames is Tommy, and Tommy is lost; lost in this labyrinth, lost within himself, and so Arthur moves long-fingered hands up Tommy's sides and feels him shiver. He digs his fingertips into the hard, smooth skin of his shoulders, and leans in to touch his lips lightly against the others'. The kiss is accepted, hesitantly, and finished hungrily. They make it over to the bed, on the way pulling Arthur's shirt over his head, and rolling over one another on the perfectly made covers. For a night, at least, Arthur has Eames back.

It doesn't always go about so smoothly. The story here—this interpretation of grief is so deep, so twisted, sometimes Tommy is purely here to take that out on him. Sometimes the grief, and the anger, cannot find a home, and so Tommy is drawn to the one familiar element down here he can hurt. You always hurt the one you love.

…

"This sort of thing—_Limbo—_is easily turned into a sort of dissociative regression. It's like a photograph. It's a snapshot in time, but the only information you have access to is within the frame of the snapshot. When you're _with_ Eames."

"What are you talking about, his subconscious created that world, it has to be… bursting with information—"

"Maybe. Maybe there's a lot there, but without him, you won't have _access_ to that information, not deep enough. There will be minor details, mood reflections at best!"

Arthur's head is in his hands, pieces of dark hair spilling through his fingers. He hasn't slept in days. The hospital room is dark, now. They keep the lights low in the evenings, so that Eames may sleep.

"We're missing something," he mutters, almost too himself. He cannot get the image of Eames' suicide, a thousand times over, from being burned behind his eyelids. "It can't be the brother. It can't be the father. In every single scenario, the relationships are repaired. Something—something else, we're missing something else and it feels like it's right in front of me. I just can't see it."

"Maybe it's you."

Arthur pauses. He lifts his head, and she stares back at him, earnestly.

"Limbo itself is… not about catharsis. It's just that, Limbo. It's nothing to do with catharsis to find your way out, it has to do with remembering reality. Not losing yourself. Remembering reality, and yearning for that truth. Maybe you should stop being a supporting cast member. Maybe you should switch the focus to you, and him."

"He rejects me as many times as he is drawn to me, it's too unpredictable."

"Then let's try to establish a pattern," Ariadne pulls up a chair, in front of Arthur, and beside Eames' bed. "What do you mean when you say he rejects you?"

At first, Arthur can only think about how many times he had rejected Eames, long before Tommy ever rejected him. He can only think of his own penance.

…

Once, in Pittsburg, Arthur owned a gym.

The gym was Ariadne's idea to gain more one on one time with Eames, and somehow get a better look into the other's locked-down psyche. It has not exactly back-fired, in the sense that Arthur and Tommy get closer every day, but it has back-fired in the sense that while Tommy views Arthur has an ally, he also seems to view him as an obstacle. Tommy is not exactly territorial, but he is dominant, and single-mindedly determined. These were all things Eames is not, in life. In life, Eames is very tolerant. In Pittsburg, Eames is Tommy, and Tommy is far less tolerant, as well as aggressive, and conflicted. It makes for one very interesting dynamic; one Arthur has a hard time appreciating.

It is close to two in the morning. Arthur has brought Tommy here for something of an audition—in this scenario, he has the connections to bring Tommy to Sparta, as well as a rotation of six projections more frightening than he himself has had to deal with in his years of working within the dreamscape. Tonight, one by one, they are challenging Tommy's every ability. Arthur is simply sitting back outside the ring, and waiting patiently for Tommy to reach his breaking point.

They don't get weaker, they only get stronger, more resilient. Tommy's wins come slower, and slower, and when the fifth projection goes down, taps out, Tommy is all but crippled with exhaustion. He pulls himself back up, blows some blood out of his nose, and sweat slides down his face and his torso like he just stepped out of the shower. Arthur knows he is about to start wading in very deep, very dangerous waters. Tommy is getting frustrated, and does not acknowledge the fifth man trudging out of the building, the sixth entering. He leans heavily on the ropes, and regards Arthur with that same nasty scowl he carries with him everywhere, and gives to everyone.

"Yo, how many more jokers you gonna have me dance around with tonight?"

Arthur, arms still folded, and expression one of genuine disinterest, gives a single shouldered shrug. "You gonna be asking that at Sparta?" Tommy purses his lips, and his eyes wander to the side before he makes a scoff in the back of his throat, and tosses his hands up. Arthur stands. "Because if you're going to be asking that at Sparta, it's now approaching 3 AM, and I wouldn't mind being in bed."

Tommy is making a concentrated effort to lift that scowl, and after a moment, almost manages to do it. In a different, almost respectful tone, "I was just wondering how many more before I could show you a real fight. Sir."

Arthur cannot help but almost crack a smile. He sits back down, and nods to the gentleman waiting patiently behind Tommy. "Last one."

Tommy smirks, and turns—Arthur cannot see his face, but he can only imagine the smirk melting off of it. The sixth projection is reminiscent of the Russian from Rocky IV. It wasn't the most imaginative creation, but even Tommy had to have felt that shiver as a child, watching Sly Stallone size up the man who killed Apollo Creed. Tommy rolls his shoulders, and cracks his neck, just before turning back to Arthur with an incredulous turn of his upper lip.

"This guy ain't middle weight."

"He's on the cusp."

"Bullshit," Tommy snorts, and goes back to his new opponent, who is doing nothing to fight a wide grin. "You're an asshole."

"So is he, be sweet," Arthur goes back to his magazine, and bites back a grin of his own. One thing has at least stayed the same, and that is the constant bak-and-forth. Eames always called it flirting. He pretends to read an article, but he's actually keeping very close tabs on this last match. The sixth contender is well on his way into heavyweight territory, but Eames, even before this identity, had always known his way around an unfair fight. He was resourceful, and so is Tommy.

The first hit could be heard around the block, Arthur suspects, if in fact anyone existed at the moment outside this broken down little gym. The first hit belongs to the projection—Tommy's exhaustion has considerably reduced his reaction time, and against a fresh fighter, with a good fifty pounds on him, it is equivalent to a crowbar in the face. As expected, however, Tommy is up in an instant, and weaves around the sheer bulk of the other, pulling off a roundhouse to the side of the other's head. His speed has picked up again, and Arthur drops the magazine long enough to see that speed at full glory. The weight does make a difference, and Tommy seems to understand it is his only advantage.

They exchange blows and blocks, and at one point Tommy just barely makes it out of the way of a hit meant to shatter his sternum. The other's knuckles barely glance against Tommy's chest, and just as he darts out of the way he drops to the floor, sweeping his leg beneath the ankles of the larger man and bringing him down hard. The last moments of the struggle are intense, and Arthur comes to stand, the hair standing up on the back of his neck as he watches them pin one another in turn, until finally the projection finally manages to keep Tommy flat on his belly, and rain down blows on the other's head and shoulders until blood has streaked across the mat, and Arthur comes between the ropes to break the match up. He shoves the larger man off, and orders him out, and drops to his knees beside Tommy. In the moments between inspecting the new injuries, and trying to rouse the prostrate fighter, Arthur waits for the dream to begin to crumble.

Instead, Tommy stirs, and with one hand pushes Arthur away from him.

"You alright? Hey, Tommy!"

"I'm fine, you fuckin' asshole," Tommy snarls, and pulls himself gingerly up off the mat. His voice has become even more nasal, and blood pours of out his nose, and his ear. He stumbles for the towel hanging from the ropes, and wordlessly begins to clean himself up. Arthur just stands there, arms folded, and watches. "You want, I'll go another round with him."

"No," Arthur snaps, almost too quickly. Tommy gives a single, bitter laugh—it is a deep, hollow sound.

"Now he's babying me. Jesus Christ."

"I'm not babying you, I've seen enough," Arthur turns on his heel and ducks under the ropes, making his way down the steps and headed toward the office. Tommy rubs the bloody towel into his hair, and droplets of sweat fly when he shakes his head.

"Seen enough? What've you seen, you seen some two-ton asshole clean my clock. I think I deserve an answer now."

"I'll consider you," Arthur says, without looking back. There is only silence behind him, and the swell of a coming storm—he knew this was coming, and he braces himself for whatever the other man's reaction will be. When he makes it to the office, he does not close the door, he faces the wall, and waits. Finally, he hears movement. Tommy is in the doorway in seconds.

"Consider me? You're fucking kidding. I just took five guys out, three rounds each—that last motherfucker was twice my size, you can't hold that against me-!"

"You're a hell of a contender, Tommy, but you're a goddamn liability," Arthur turns and speaks calmly, but firmly. Tommy has a tendency to talk over everyone, and when he starts to protest Arthur holds a hand up. "You gotta see where I'm coming from here, you're a raging bull, you have no control over your temper, no respect for authority, and you're a fucking deserter." The words erupt out of him, and hang between the two men. Tommy freezes, like a cornered animal, and his eyes have gone almost black. He steps forward, once, twice, until he is hovering right in Arthur's face.

"How the _fuck_ do you know about that?" he growls, and the heat rises off of him in waves. "No one knows about that, how the fuck did you find out?"

"I protect my investments, and I know my fighters," it is a believable lie. "You think you can hide it once all those reporters start digging around at Sparta?"

"Yeah? And have _you_ managed to keep your mouth shut?" Tommy asks, and gets a look that tells him he is a jackass or even asking. He doesn't trust it. "And why would you do something like that for me?" It is impossible for even Arthur to keep himself expressionless through everything, and so he inhales deeply, and averts his eyes to one of the posters behind Tommy's head. Tommy is still studying him, as if he knows what to say, but does not want to say it. Finally, "No, this isn't about—this isn't about what went down the other day, you and I—you're not trying to protect me—"

"Of course I am," Arthur snaps, and Tommy shuts up, still watching him with silent uncertainty. "I care about what happens to you. Even if you don't, I always have." He knows he has fucked it up. He has taken it too far, and so he backs away from Tommy, and goes to stand over his desk, hands in his hair, trying to recollect his thoughts. Tommy just stares at him—his left eye is beginning to swell a little, and he sniffs hard at the blood still trickling from his nose. After a moment, Arthur just waves him off. "Forget it. Forget it, look—I'll make the call, I'll get you in."

Tommy nods—the only 'thank you' he seems to know—and starts to turn for the door. He hesitates, and the dark head inclines ever so slightly over his shoulder. "They start digging… they're gonna see who I really am," he says, quietly. Arthur glances over at him. "When that happens, I'll be going away for a while. I know that. But I gotta try."

"I know," is the quiet response.

"Do me a favor," Tommy turns fully to look at him, and Arthur cannot meet his eyes. He is too much like Eames right now. "Don't try to protect me."

Arthur doesn't watch him go. He sometimes wonders which of them, Eames or himself, is truly the one stuck in purgatory.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you all for your lovely feedback! I hope this next installment does not disappoint! =)

**Part II**

The bar is practically empty.

One of the advantages of knowing what Limbo is, and some knowledge of how it works, is that Arthur can essentially stalk Eames without stalking him. It's a good way to follow his movements and pick up on patterns; though in the past it has backfired. In one particularly unsuccessful scenario, Tommy was actually driven emotionally very far away from Arthur because he thought _he_ was the one doing the stalking, and Arthur was too much of a distraction in his pursuit for revenge, or for honor, or whatever it is that actually drives this alter-ego. Arthur must do his best to always make sure that Tommy acknowledges him first. It is never easy. Tommy doesn't seem to want to acknowledge much of anyone, or anything.

Tommy is hunched over the bar counter, a beer in front of him, and his eyes are glued to the screen above their heads. Arthur was here first, two seats away, and yet Tommy has not found it necessary to so much as even nod in his direction. Arthur is equally as stubborn, and so they maintain their silence, and nurse their drinks. Correction: Arthur is nursing his drink, while watching Tommy kill one beer after the next, and pepper his evening with the occasional shot. Jameson, his father's brand. Why does he do these things to himself?

With every shot, his window to make contact is getting smaller and smaller, and so Arthur forces himself to fold the paper onto the bar, and start a conversation.

"Those sixteen ounce lifts part of your training?" Tommy's brows arch, in that way they always do when he fully intends on being nothing but a smartass, but he still does not look at Arthur. "Or was it just that good of a day?"

"Look, man, I'm just sittin' here minding my own business," he brings the beer to his lips, and takes a swig. "Not being a liability to no one."

Arthur laughs; it's more of a snort. "Yeah, alright. I have some news for you, but there's something I need ask you first." Tommy pauses, swishing the beer back and forth in his mouth before nodding, swallowing, and turning to face Arthur. "And I need an honest answer, don't do that cryptic … I don't know, 'lone wolf' thing you do, it gets old."

That brings a laugh up out of Tommy, a rarity of good-nature, and he brings his gloved hands up in surrender. "Lone wolf, I got you—okay, okay—ask away, Arthur," Every once in a while, when the name passes his lips, Tommy's eyes will flicker with a ghost of familiarity. The flicker dies as quickly as it sparks, but when he speaks the others name it is as though his lips remember saying that name with such affection, such fondness that his flesh has not lost that memory. They cradle the name, and repeat it, and then Eames is gone, and Tommy is back. "Arthur," he murmurs again, quirking a brow. "You always gone by Arthur?"

"That's my name."

"Yeah, but—no nickname? Not even as a kid?" Arthur shakes his head, and Tommy's other brow joins the first. He shrugs. "Huh. Go figure."

Arthur dares to ask the obvious question. "What—get déjà vu or something?"

"Nah," Tommy always looks away when he lies. His tells are far more obvious than Eames' ever were. "Just kinda stiff. What's the question?" Even in the days before, when their relationship had not extended beyond that of a mutual disdain, Eames had always liked Arthur's name, and the fact that Arthur never tried to shorten it. In the days after, when that mutual disdain had grown to respect, and affection, Eames had loved saying his name. He would say it as often as he could, and took every opportunity to let it roll off his tongue and set his mouth into a smile. Even with the hard edges of Tommy's accent, Arthur loves to watch his mouth when he says the name.

"What are you doing all this for?" Arthur leans forward, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his eyes narrowed. He studies Tommy's face very carefully, and when the other hesitates, he goes on, "It's not for the fame. You said yourself; it could ruin you getting out there like that. Uncle Sam doesn't take this kind of thing lightly… but you want this. This one shot at something, you want it so bad you're willing to be put away. You know the second you walk off that stage and they take you away in cuffs, you'll be forgotten. What's this fifteen minutes gonna really do for you?"

Tommy's eyes have been fixed somewhere behind Arthur the entire time he has been speaking, and he absently swishes his beer once or twice before tipping it back again. He shrugs. "I don't know," he mutters. "Only thing I was ever good at, I guess."

"Ah huh. Try again."

The temper flares—Arthur can see it in his eyes, but he contains the fire, and sniffs hard. He cracks his neck, once, and takes a deep breath. He calms down. Tommy has never made an effort to calm down before, not with Arthur, and not like this.

"I made a promise," his words are clipped, and positively deadly. "A promise to take care of someone, who or what that promise was is none of your damn business. Now you answer me a question, you get me into Sparta or no?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Tommy, I got you in. But I can take you out just as quickly. Takes one phone call and you'll never see the inside of a cage again."

Tommy's lip curls in a near snarl, and he rolls his eyes, tipping gracelessly forward, pinning Arthur with one of those black-eyed stares. "What are you getting at?"

Arthur does not change positions, nor does he shrink away. He never has. "If you're going to do this, if I'm going to put my neck on the line for you, then you need to understand that _you_ are my business. Your motives are my business. What goes on in that head of yours, what you dream about in the five minutes a night you probably sleep—that's mine, too." Tommy is not happy with this new development, and by the way he has forced his tongue into his cheek and bitten down, creating a pout that is positively _murderous_, Arthur does not expect him to agree to such terms. If he doesn't, Arthur may as well throw in the towel now.

There is a clear internal struggle here, because Tommy's beer is now forgotten in his right hand, and his left is curling his fingers, over and over, as if trying to shake out the urge to strike. Despite the torrents of anger and violence that are constants inside of him, Tommy has never hit Arthur, in any scenario. He uses words, not fists, and though Arthur could probably hold his own for at least a minute or two, Tommy knows that his strength is deadly. The part of him that is still Eames would never use that advantage against him.

"You think I know?" Tommy finally says, bringing his stare back to Arthur. It is chilling. "What's goin' on up here?" One of his fingers makes a half-circle around his temple. "Half the time, I don't even know. All I know is what I want, and how to get there. You wanna be my shrink, knock yourself out."

Arthur's brows furrow a fraction, and he pulls himself upright. "I'm assuming that this is you agreeing to those terms."

Tommy's pout splits into a bitter smile, and he finishes his beer. "Yeah, you assume right," instead of storming out with his head low and his hands in his pockets, Tommy surprises Arthur for a second time tonight, and turns to order another beer. He also orders a shot for both of them, and silently passes one to Arthur, and their toast is every bit as quiet. Arthur sees an opportunity, here, and for the second time tonight, he chooses to cross another line.

"I'm sure you've heard the old saying, that the path to revenge is a lonely road, and he who seeks it should carry two shovels, or dig two graves, or whatever the fuck," his brows dart up high on his forehead when Tommy's smile returns—this one is not bitter, or dark, it's just a smile. It's a smile Eames would give him just before saying something like, "Darling, always with the melodrama" or "Arthur you're so sensitive", and his eyes would crinkle, and his head would drop to the side. Arthur shakes the memory off, and continues, "I hope that's not what this is all about."

"And what the hell would I have to get revenge for?"

"I don't know, you're drunk abusive father, the fact that you don't trust a single living person in this world right now, the list goes on," Arthur crosses his arms, and leans back. "You're pissed at the world, Tommy. There's a reason you fight the way you do, like a fucking hurricane, unstoppable, and God have mercy on whoever you get in the cage with on a bad day." Tommy's smile has vanished. He's peering at Arthur over the mouth of his bottle, as though he's trying to remember volunteering this information. He seems to recover that memory, and straightens a little in his seat, averting his eyes.

"I shouldn't be drinkin' around you."

"Why's that?"

"I talk too much," Tommy says, and his expression is unreadable_._ "And my Pops ain't a drunk no more. Almost a thousand days sober."

"Are you proud of him?"

Tommy snorts. "I don't give a shit. Just glad he can stay conscious long enough to train me," he shrugs, and tips his beer at Arthur. "And just cause you helped me out, letting me use your gym and whatnot, that doesn't mean you get to meet him, either, so don't even ask, it's not gonna happen."

Arthur frowns, genuinely confused. "Why would I want to meet your father?"

Tommy gives his surroundings a glance just before leaning in, and his voice drops to a low murmur. "Because face-sucking, and a circle jerk doesn't constitute bringing a guy home to meet the folks," his tone is dangerous, but the look on his face, a bitter twist on Eames' most mischievous expression tells Arthur Tommy is not trying to be as much of a dick as he is coming off. "Alright? So don't start picking out china or anything."

"Can you have a circle jerk with only two… participants?"

"Call it whatever you want, it is what it is," Tommy swigs his beer, and the swig turns into a long swallow, as though he trying to finish as fast as he can. When he does, his gaze falls down to Arthur's shoes, and none too subtly glides up his legs, his lap, and then back to his face. He is considering something, and Arthur knows that look only too well. He stands, and puts his coat on, pushing his barstool back in. Tommy watches him. "You outta here?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, without looking up. He reaches into his back pocket, and pulls a billfold from his wallet. He leaves some cash on the counter, and shakes his coat out once. "Got a long day tomorrow, dealing with the likes of you."

Tommy doesn't say anything, and lets Arthur leave. Arthur would like to see whether or not he is followed.

…

"Did you know," Eames' voice is always its' softest when he is torturing someone. "That as a boy, I used to stutter?"

Arthur keeps his arms crossed tight around his body, and the wind of the sea whips around him. The water is at least calm again. "Is that so."

"Yes, it started just as I learned to speak. My father tried everything to break me of it, but for some reason, I couldn't complete a sentence without making a complete mockery of myself," there is a smile on Eames' lips, as he steps carefully around Arthur, head down and hands in his pockets. "Made every day in school Hell."

"Lots of kids stutter," Arthur snaps, dry, and irritated. Eames continues on in that pleasant tone.

"After long enough my father decided to take matters into his own hands. Speech therapy had failed, and day after day he watched his youngest come home in tears because of things like bullying—not just from students, but from instructors, thinking I did it for as long as I did for the attention. Soon, I just stopped speaking, and it only got worse. He tried his own speech therapy, at first, talking to me, having me read aloud, having me sing to get more comfortable with my voice. At one point, he even let me have a drink with him, at the age of 11, to see if it calmed my nerves," Eames stops walking, but he lifts his head, and breathes in deeply the sea air, eyes narrowed, and thoughtful. "When I didn't get sick, he offered me another. Then another, and I did get sick. All over myself, all over him. He was furious, and I could not understand why. While he cleaned me up, he was swearing at me, and telling me how he could understand something as easy as speaking clearly could be so difficult for me."

"Eames…" Arthur murmurs, quietly, and glances at him from over his shoulder. Part of him doesn't want the Forger to finish, and there is an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his belly; a hurt, a sympathy, and it will not abate.

"Because I was stupid. There was something wrong with me, and it made me very upset. I started shouting at him, and interestingly enough, all of my sentences were clear, and complete," Eames' smile indents even further into his cheek, but his eyes do not reflect that smile. "But he didn't hear them. He took the soapy cloth he had been using to wash the vomit off of me, and put it into my face. He ground it into my open eyes, and when I started crying, he balled it up and tried to force it down my throat." Arthur says nothing, because he knows Eames is not looking for pity, or for sympathy. He is trying to make a point. "After that night, I stopped speaking_. _After that night, my father apologized, but he did not stop drinking. When he was feeling particularly guilty, he channeled it into cruelty. I choked on soapy rags until I was fourteen. My brother was to be married that year, and he promised to get me out of that house. When he did not make good on that promise, I decided to leave on my own, at fifteen."

"Did you start talking after you left?"

"Not immediately, no. I was afraid to. Even without stuttering, if I heard my own voice, I was embarrassed by the sound of it."

"You have a beautiful speaking voice, I don't—understand," Arthur tells him, and Eames' meets his eyes, and smiles wide. The smile is genuine, and grateful, that after everything Arthur would still reach out to Eames when he sees him down. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because I trust you," the Forger answers, quite simply. Arthur's gaze lingers on the other a moment, before he nods curtly, looking back out over the ocean. In the distance, he can see something dark gray stirring over the horizon. The winds pick up around him, and his scalp tingles, and his chest tightens. The sky is getting darker by the minute, and when he looks up the clouds have blocked out the sun. Arthur can feel the saliva start to rush in his mouth, and a sort of nausea overtakes him. When he looks at Eames, the Forger is no longer smiling. "Do you trust _me_, Arthur?"

…

"The man I know was never so angry," Ariadne is flushed, her eyes glassy. She now has been deprived of sleep even longer than Arthur has, and it is being to show in dark circles beneath her eyes. "He was… delightful, he was pleasant, and upbeat, and a joker, and—even on his bad days, he never went to such a dark place."

"He was," Arthur mumbles into his palm, leaning over the desk with half his face supported by his hand.

From across the room, Dom stirs, "Not always," he says, catching both Arthur and Ariadne's attention. His gaze levels with Arthurs, because Arthur knows. "That was Eames when _you_ met him, Ariadne. By the time the Fischer job rolled around, he had long since found himself, but… when he had been recommended to me, on that first job… he was something different."

"He was never angry, Dom. Not like this," Arthur insists, and Cobb's face twists into an exhausted scowl, as if he expects more out of Arthur than to dance around the point.

"No, not angry—but self destruction _defined_ him, for years, you _know_ that! You saw it! You hated working with him at first, and not because he was constantly yanking your chain, but because he was a wild card, a liability that none of us could control," Cobb gets up from leaning on the desk, and takes the several steps across the room to stand over Eames in the bed. He cannot take his eyes off the prone form beneath the breathing apparatus, and all of the wires still keeping him alive. "Every time we tracked him down we had to front him half his share just so he would have something to live on while on a job. He drank and gambled and snorted his money until he would literally be counting pocket change for a bowl of soup."

"That comes with the territory of being a Forger, we never thought anything of it," Arthur snaps. "He is the best in the business. It's always so difficult to find a good Forger because they live short lives, typically. Think about what it takes, the toll it takes on the mind to fracture itself into multiple people. Eames—like a lot of them—found their solace inside a bottle or at the end of a line." He ducks his head, so he doesn't have to look at them; he hates hearing this. He hates remembering that Eames. "But always with a smile on his face. Never with so much anger, shit, he never even got overly aggressive with projections."

"Well something had to have changed," Ariadne goads, impatiently. "You obviously kept him around because he was so good at what he did, and when I met him, he was pretty well off. _Before_ the Fischer job, so … what happened?"

"He grew up. By the time he was twenty-six, he had cleaned up his act," Dom shrugs, as if there is no more to the story that he is comfortable talking about.

Ariadne pauses, waiting for Dom to offer more of an explanation, and when he doesn't, she makes a wild hand gesture, "_And_? You two have no idea what made him want to do that? One day he's falling over himself drunk, wigged out, and the next he comes in wearing Armani and having a mortgage?"

"Not…" Arthur starts, but then closes his mouth, unsure how to finish. Dom steps up.

"Not exactly," he can see Ariadne's expression is becoming very frustrated, and not wanting to cross this sleep deprived young woman, Dom continues, quickly, "There was a big job coming up, we were desperate for a Forger, and he was nowhere to be found. So Arthur started looking." He nods at the Point Man, as if to say, _This is yours to tell, don't look at me. _Arthur runs his hands through his hair, and slowly rises to his feet.

"I found him ... on… a boat of the Florida coast. He was alone—alone with a glock, and a case of Jameson, and enough cocaine to put a rhinoceros in cardiac arrest. There had to be a hundred thousand bucks worth of blow on that boat, I was worried he'd ripped off a drug lord. No food, only a few days worth of water…"

"He'd gone out there to kill himself?"

"No," Arthur is over the bed now, eyes fixed on Eames' sleeping face. "That's what I had thought at first, too, but when I asked him if that had been the plan, he laughed at me, like _I_ was the crazy one for even thinking he'd want to kill himself. He hardly said anything else, not for the four days I watched him crash, and wake up again, and cut more lines to sober himself up, and kill a bottle trying to come back down. It was like he was just grateful to have company, or …something like that. We talked, but not about anything deeper than jobs we'd done, and where'd we had been, and what we'd been up to. On the fifth day, _he _woke _me_ up, with coffee, and all the booze and coke had been dumped over the side."

Ariadne seems very taken aback. She opens her mouth to speak, but can't think of what to say. All she can do is ask. "So… then what happened?"

Arthur shrugs. "We had the cup of coffee, and he said he was ready to get back to work, but before that, he had to go visit his father in _England._ After that he was all ours."

"Do you know what happened when he saw his father?"

"It had to be good," Dom interjects. "Because he showed up on time, cleaned up, ready to work. One of the best executions of an extraction we've done to this day. And he'd still have the occasional drink, still gamble—but overall, he was under control."

"All he ever told me was that he had made peace with his father. Even went to the funeral when he died, didn't seem bitter during the service, he just seemed like he had accepted it all," Arthur glances back down at Eames, and though he is pale, and thinner than he had been, there is nothing of Tommy's darkness in the peaceful expression. Arthur cannot think of a time when there ever was. "That's why I know it can't be the father. Tommy has some real issues with his father, but … I think that's just what was leftover. And he had just had dinner with Brendan when the shooting happened, so I don't think that there's anything to resolve there either. It's just grief—and something is keeping him from wanting to be back in reality."

Ariadne is quiet a moment, lips pursed and expression tight. After a moment, "What about when he _doesn't_ reject you?"

It is almost easier when he does.

…

Tommy does end up following him, a day later, back at the gym. Paddy had a previous commitment that made him cut his routine with Tommy short, and so he has found himself standing outside the double doors of Arthur's gym. It is late in the day, and Arthur always makes sure he clears the place of projections before Tommy even gets the idea to pay him a visit.

Arthur is blowing off some steam of his own, working a bag over with an aggression he has not felt within himself for years. At first, he doesn't even notice Tommy quietly enter, and take a quick glance at his surroundings. Tommy seems to immediately observe that the building is empty. Only when Arthur delivers a hard blow of his knee into the side of the bag that sends it spinning heavily on its chain does he stop to steady it, and nods in Tommy's direction.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he asks, slightly out of breath as he removes his gloves, and Tommy gives a little half-shouldered shrug.

"Sometimes," is the disinterested reply, and he is still looking over the empty gym, as if he expects someone to suddenly appear out f the woodwork. "So what, you here alone? You were busting on that bag something serious." Arthur half laughs, and pushes his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist.

"Yeah, it's been a frustrating couple of days," he starts to approach Tommy, who hasn't even taken his hands from his pockets. There is something off about his posture, the way he is hunched down—like he doesn't trust anything in here, or anyone; not even himself. "He let you go early tonight?'

"Had a meeting," he replies, distractedly. Finally, as though he is finally satisfied no one else is here with them, his gaze wanders back to Arthur. "You feel like sparring?"

At first, Arthur is not sure he heard Tommy right. Then he snorts, and it turns into a chuckle. "You seem to think I have a death wish."

"Nah, the way you were workin' that bag looks like there's more to you than that mouth," Tommy's hands appear and he peels off his hoodie. The beginnings of a grin start to form on his lips. "And all your goddamn rules."

Tommy flashes a very quick smile, and Arthur only rolls his eyes, continuing to unwrap his wrists.

"Actually there is. But it's a simple question of weight ratios. Should I stand next to you in front of a mirror?"

Tommy glances him over, and bites down on his bottom lip to hold back a smarmy grim. After a moment comes a very carefully planned response, "Nah, I'd never expect you to go to-toe-to with someone outside of your weight class," one of the thin brows lift, and Arthur rolls his eyes—again. Tommy is still carrying around some bruises from the heavyweight Arthur put him up against.

"Okay, I see—fair is fair," he taps his glove against the bag, and cannot believe he is actually considering this. He and Eames had sparred time and again back in the day, and Arthur had even won some of the time. But Here, Eames is Tommy, and Tommy is the embodiment of unholy strength and terror. Then again, a sparring session could give a window into Tommy, and where he and Arthur actually stand. How he chooses to handle a sparring session with the other man would tell him a lot—if, in fact, it doesn't backfire, and Arthur ends up a paraplegic in Limbo. Arthur weighs these pros and cons, and after long enough, gives Tommy a nod.

"Alright, you wanna spar, let's spar. Just a warning—you may be getting into something you aren't ready to handle."

Tommy's smile is sincere; a sheer expression of joy, and one that can almost be described as giddy. "Alright, I got you. I'll be gentle, I promise."

The strange thing in all of this, is that Tommy _is_ gentle. He is holding back in a manner that is near-insulting to Arthur, and yet the point man does not want to call him out so soon. He wants to see where Tommy will take this. As he suspected, the session itself betrays more information than he is sure Tommy wanted to reveal. This is not to say that Arthur does not put up a good fight—Arthur has always been more lean, more wiry, and to a degree depends a lot on his speed. Arthur has always been underestimated, and often, that is how Arthur wins his matches. That is how Arthur has won most his fights, by outsmarting his opponent (and, usually, he always has a sidearm. It has been sometime since Arthur had to go hand-to-hand with someone, and there is a lot to be said for the comfort of knowing you can always blow the other's brains out when the combat aspect doesn't go your way).

In life, Eames, even without being the freight train of brute strength that Tommy is, always enjoyed a good brawl to a gun battle. Unlike Arthur, he never had a problem getting his hands dirty.

The sessions between their breakaways don't last quite as long as they should—Tommy is holding out, and so when the time comes to land a killing blow, he always manages to literally tear himself out of the situation, and jog back several steps on his toes, retaining a cool-headed grin and watching Arthur recollect himself. In turn, he does the same just before Arthur is able to pay him the compliment of going all out, and will duck or twist just before a choke-hold gets dangerous, or Arthur decides to drive an elbow hard into the base of his neck.

Like his counterpart in life, even a light sparring session with Arthur is enough to raise the heat between him and Tommy, and things do get a little ugly; especially when Tommy realizes that despite Arthur's lean frame, holding nothing in comparison to his own, he must always been on his guard. Arthur has a few tricks up his sleeve, and at one point manages to deliver an uppercut that snaps Tommy's head back hard enough to make him see stars. Arthur is able to cut in and wrap his hand around the base of Tommy's neck, forcing him downward long enough to sweep his foot around and plant his heel there, hard, igniting the pressure point that makes the larger man reel and fall almost flat to the floor. Arthur then makes the mistake of joining him there in a half-second, down on him with the inside of his elbow locked under Tommy's chin, squeezing with everything he has left.

This doesn't last long. Tommy doesn't tap, not even for Arthur, and the inevitable plays out when he shifts his weight hard forward, and when he jerks to the left he collides with the mat, onto his back, and with Arthur still wrapped around him. The sound that follows the action is somewhat disturbing—a _CRACK! _just before a dull thud when Arthur's breath leaves his body entirely, and his arms slide harmlessly one by one from around Tommy. The point man is vaguely aware of the force suddenly lifting, and from somewhere over him Tommy scrambles to get off of him, and is suddenly leaning over him. What was once sheer aggression bleeds into a sort of terror on Tommy's part, and the hand that comes to the side of Arthur's face is strangely tender, as is the other hand, that gently prods his middle for broken bones.

"Jesus," the oath falls from those full lips, hovering inches from Arthur's line of sight, and Arthur feels his face bend into a smile. "Jesus, I killed him…"

When his lungs are able to suck in air again, Arthur laughs, and Tommy backs up on his heels to let the other sit up, and rest his weight back on his palms. He rolls dark eyes over to Tommy, who cannot shake the half-apologetic look hanging on his features.

"Weight ratios, asshole. Weight ratios," is all he can manage to get out at first, wheezing between chuckles.

"Goddamn, you okay? You hurt?"

"Nah, I'm surprisingly durable. Look—" Arthur cuts himself off, and his eyes fall onto just below his abdomen, where Tommy's palm is still lingering, searing heat, and creating a light tension with his fingertips. He is unsure what to make of it at first, and what exactly to do next. This feeling of closeness is one Arthur has missed, dearly, and the moment lingers, and does not pass. He is aware of a certain heaviness in the atmosphere, and when he finally looks up and Tommy, Tommy is not looking at him. His eyes are downcast, heavy lidded, and his tongue runs in an unconscious movement over the swell of his bottom lip. "What are you doing?" Arthur breathes, so softly it could almost be a whisper.

Tommy seems equally thrown back, and stammers just as softly, "I—I was checking to see if you were…" his grey eyes flick up, and lock on Arthur's. He has run out of words.

Then he moves in. The kiss is sudden, and Arthur does not wait to see if Tommy will snap out of it and react. He takes the kiss hungrily, and when Tommy's tongue slides over his he grounds loudly, and feels the hand cross the line from his belly and over the bulge in his gym pants with a little more deliberate pressure. Tommy moves more over him, and Arthur adjusts his position so that Tommy may stretch out across him, and their mouths are locked, teeth pulling greedily on the other's lips. Tommy is advancing so quickly Arthur cannot seem to wrap his head around it—first came a touch, now a kiss, and then a hand sliding into his trousers, and enveloping his already too-hard cock. In this scenario, Arthur is the one who loses his grip on this new reality.

"Eames," he murmurs longingly into the other's mouth, and his hand slides up to grip Tommy's short hair, just above the nape of his neck. "God, Eames…"

Tommy freezes against him, his mouth still open against Arthur's as he closes it, and pulls away slowly. "What did you call me?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the background, the only sound to penetrate the heavy silence.

Arthur's concentration is on his phone. He checks it for messages, checks for signal strength, stares at it, drums it against his palm, and when his phone gives him nothing, he comes to his feet to face the wide open windows, running both hands through his hair. Nothing there either, only the Impala parked idly beside the storage shed, and the rise of a green and brown hill against a gray sky. He counts the seconds as they pass, one after the other in a terrible succession, and leans his forehead against the glass, his breath fogging as he speaks.

"Come on Eames, come on, come on," is the dry whisper, and he keeps his eyes on that horizon, searching for any signs that any moment Eames come trudging over it. Still, nothing. It is three hours past their scheduled rendezvous, and Forger had promised to be right behind him. The Forger ordered him to leave, against every fiber of his will, and he trusted Eames to keep his word. In this line of work timing and time are everything, and even Eames does not show up late to the rendezvous. Yet, Eames has not contacted him. In fact, no one has.

At first, Arthur had refused to leave—the job had not finished as smoothly as if should have and the opportunity presented itself that one of them should make the getaway with the loot. Arthur had been that person, but he had not gotten out in time to avoid seeing the blood drawn on both sides. He is still caked with it, on his face, on his hands-he has not even showered yet. He is waiting for Eames, and not even the stench and stickiness of the blood on his clothes, on his body, can distract him from that.

Night falls. Arthur was ordered not to pursue Eames, and he is not one to disobey orders, so instead he finally takes a shower. It is brief, a hard scrub under hot water, and the second he is finished he yanks a towel down and wraps it around himself, then goes straight back to the window. Nothing stirs in the darkness outside the cabin; no sign of Eames. He dresses quickly—a pair of brown slacks and a white undershirt—and takes a seat down by the window to clean and bandage his injuries, phone beside him. It doesn't ring. Arthur wants to throw it across the room and watch it shatter, but he can't. He cannot control what will happen next, and he hates it.

He is wakeful through the night. He paces, he cleans his firearms, he does push-ups—he clears through an entire pack of Marlboro lights before morning, smoking, and pacing, and running his hand over his face, through his hair. The night fades into a smoky morning. The phone has not so much as given him a coded message, or a sign of life. Arthur cannot stare at it any longer. He takes one last, long gaze over that grassy hilltop before he makes the decision to go back, and get Eames.

He straps on his shoulder holsters, and a decent pair of shoes, trying to formulate some sort of strategy to this ill-fated rescue attempt. He figures he will have to take at least a few distance shots, so he heads toward the hall closet for a sniper rifle and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The bruises on his face and arms are bone deep. Briefly, he wonders what Eames will look like should he see him again and immediately terminates the thought. He does not even imagine want to imagine what Eames must look like.

He loads up the Impala with almost every piece of ammunition in the safe house, and when he gets in he slams the door, and reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror. He turns the key and brings the engine to life, and with another glance in the rearview begins to back out. There is a figure distant in the rectangular reflection, and Arthur almost breaks his neck on a double-take. Eames is just on the ridge of the hill, on foot and walking slowly, head down and jacket folded over his forearm. Even from the distance, Arthur can see that his shirt is splattered in a dark soak of blood, and one of his trouser legs is shredded clear to the knee, where there is a sloppy attempt to bandage an obscure wound. Eames does not even look up; he seems so tired.

"Eames," it is a dry, barely audible whisper. Panic rises in Arthur, and he slams the Impala back into park, clumsily tearing out of the driver's seat and breaking into a sprint. "Eames!" he shouts, and his voice carries, and echoes across the secluded wood.

Eames' head snaps up and he stops in his tracks, drops his jacket, and doesn't even get Arthur's name out of his mouth before they literally collide into one another in a fierce, rough embrace.

"Fuck," Arthur's voice is loud, and unsteady, even to his own ears. His arms lock around Eames, tight and secure, as if he is a mirage and will melt away just as quickly as he appeared. "Fuck Eames, you scared the shit out of me, where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, love, I'm sorry—I couldn't lead them back here," Eames is breathless and he holds Arthur hard, pushing his fingers up through the back of the others dark hair and pulling him even closer. "I couldn't lead them to you, I had to..." he doesn't finish the thought. Instead he just presses his cheek harder into Arthur's temple and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry."

"Blood," Arthur felt it seep into him the second his body pressed into Eames', and he jerks away, pulling at the Forger's bloodstained shirt. "God, you're bleeding—"

"It's not my blood, Arthur," Eames breathes. "It's not my blood, I'm okay." He takes Arthur's face in his hands, and his own face, bruised and battered, gives way to a wide grin, and his eyebrow quirks cheekily. "I'm okay—you were worried about me?"

Arthur's stare is incredulous. He scowls. "Of _course_ I was, Eames, you asshole, you followed _none of the rules _we set down, sent our entire exit strategy to Hell—"

"Shut up, Arthur," Eames' grin widens, just before he leans in and kisses him hard. Arthur takes his lovers advice and returns the kiss, bruising on those full, decadent lips, rolling his tongue over Eames' and lowering them both onto the ground until the Forger is almost flat on his back beneath him. Arthur continues the kiss, invasive and hungry, until Eames has to break away to take a breath, lips swollen and wet, and his eyes glazed over. He laughs, once, and his eyes crinkle in that way that can usually get him anything he wants out of Arthur. He doesn't have time to speak before Arthur is kissing him again, lowering himself so that his is lying atop him, taking in the heat from the other body, and running his hands through Eames' short hair, pulling a fraction, and completely unconcerned with losing himself in this moment. Eames' hands snake up around either side of his ribs, fingertips running over every rise and fall on the surface of his skin, and Arthur is gone.

"Eames," he groans into the other's mouth, and when he feels that smile against his again, he can't help but murmur into it, "God, baby, I was so worried about you-"

Eames pulls away, ever so slightly, and his smile has twisted into a grin. "What did you call me?"

...

Arthur's heart drops somewhere into his belly, and his face feels hot, but the rest of his body is numb, and cold. His voice catches in his throat, and all he can do is stare back at Tommy like a deer in the headlights. Tommy's expression is caught into something between genuine confusion, and _something else_. Not recognition, it is something deeper. The silence hangs around them, heavy, threatening to drop and smother.

"Easy, I said—I said 'go easy'," Arthur finally stammers. Tommy frowns, and shakes his head.

"No, no you said, 'Eames'. That's a name, what is that?" Arthur's jaws feel welded together, and his arms feel heavy. He stares straight back into the other's eyes, and Tommy, now seeming a little disturbed, slowly removes his hand from inside Arthur's pants, but doesn't get off of him right away. Against his own nature, he hesitantly ventures, "Did I do something…?"

"It's nothing you're _fucking _ready to handle, Tommy, get off me," Arthur snaps, and shoves Tommy hard with his palm, sending the other man back on his heels, and then flat on his ass. He only catches a glimpse of the look stricken on Tommy's face. He is so _goddamn Eames _right now Arthur can't even look at him, or stick around to explain himself. He just gets to his feet and brushes himself off, reaching for a towel hanging off the ropes, and then storms out of the ring. He makes it all the way to his office before getting inside and slamming the door, letting his back fall against the filing cabinet and bringing his hands to his face, rubbing hard up into his hair. Through his peripherals he can just make out the outline of Tommy slamming the doors behind him, and turning left for the long walk home. He fucked up. He knows he fucked up, again, and he digs his palms into his closed eyes and releases a sharp, frustrated cry from between clenched teeth.

Sometimes he _really, really _envies Tommy, and how gloriously fucking clueless he is.

This scenario, however, is not one Arthur is entirely unfamiliar with. It has happened before.

...

"Well, you fucked the pooch on that one."

Arthur clears his throat, and dares to cross Ariadne. "I think the phrase is, "Screwed the pooch."

"Yeah, yeah it would be, if you _had_ screwed the pooch, but you didn't, you _fucked_the pooch, Arthur," Ariadne is beyond angry, and her cheeks are tinged with pink, brown eyes sparking. "What the hell were you thinking? You rejected him, made him feel like he had done something wrong—Arthur, you are the one true familiarity he has in this reality! Who is he going to trust now? You're the only one who didn't make him feel so goddamn vulnerable!"

"Vulnerable? Ariadne, you haven't met this Eames! Tommy is a brick shit house, physically _and_ emotionally-" Arthur suddenly realizes Ariadne is laughing at him. **Laughing **at him, bitter, and dripping with disdain. He cuts himself off and confronts her in his lowest, deadliest tone. "Is something funny?"

"Yes, you. You've learned nothing from this, have you?"

"You're apparently the shrink here, fill me in."

"The one person who made him feel _human_in this entire crazy reality he has created, made him feel safe, and wanted, just pushed him away with no explanation. Of course he's going to be Hell to deal with now. You'll be lucky if he even acknowledges your existence now," Ariadne snorts, and folds her arms matter-of-factly. "And quite frankly, I wouldn't blame him."

It did not take Ariadne verbally bitch-slapping him to let Arthur know he fucked up. He is not too proud to stoop for advice. "Okay. Okay, how do I fix this?"

Ariadne fixes him with a level stare. "Shoot him, shoot the brother, the father, then yourself and quite frankly, start over."

"You _know_I can't."

"I know you can't," she says, and lowers herself down to the bench beside him again. She is silent a moment, and then another. Arthur can see her mind working behind her expression, hard, and it is another ten or so minutes go by before she speaks. "What about..." she stops herself, and purses her lips, forehead deepening into a frown. "What if you tell him the truth?"

"It's too soon."

"He's bought it before."

"Yeah, and on the few occasions where he hasn't cut me off completely, or lost his shit, he's blown his brains out, and we're back at square one," Arthur does not receive a reply. "There has to be a way."

"Flowers and candy." Arthur shoots Ariadne a scathing glare, and she throws her hands up. "Not literally, Jesus. I mean a gesture, jackass. Words are out now-you screwed that one-you're going to have to do something that touches him. And then you're going to have to walk away, and let it hit him, because it's not going to if you're breathing down his throat."

"Let what hit him, exactly?"

"How much you care," she says, quietly. "And what you would do just to be there for him."

Even in life, these things are so much easier said than done.

…

It is a miserable day when Arthur finally decides to confront Tommy. The sun has not bothered to show its face, and the weather is a constant drizzle; no doubt a mood reflection, which makes this all the more uncomfortable. None of this is surprising of course, considering the events of the other day. Tommy is alone on a bench in this dreary little park, just across from Colt's gym. It looks like he has just finished a run, and is waiting for the doors to open. He has reverted back to the Tommy Arthur meets when he first makes his way into limbo; closed off, and disinterested in everything but his own agenda.

Arthur has very little experience in the business of apologizing, and when he does, he tends to get defensive. In life, it is always Eames who usually fucks up, but he has the advantage of an extremely expressive set of features, and doesn't need words half the time; just that chin-down, apologetic pout-thing he does when he knows it's bad. It is near-impossible for Arthur to say no.

Tommy is a different story. When he sees Arthur approach his posture changes—not into that hunched ticking time bomb, with his hands in his pockets that is his usual stance, but something else. He is almost protective, turning his shoulders inward, as if to block an unseen attack. He is humiliated, and worse, he has closed himself off entirely.

"Hey," Arthur says softly, and comes to sit beside him, hands in his own pockets and head down. Ariadne had explained something to him about standing over someone being a psychological advantage, and that is something Tommy does not need right now. "Look, I know you're probably pretty pissed at me. I don't blame you."

Tommy leans forward a little, and won't look at him, not even through the corner of his eye. The toothpick in the right corner of his mouth seems to be the only thing occupying him. Nothing in his expression even indicates he is aware of Arthur next to him. Arthur exhales hard, and rubs the back of his neck; a nervous habit he usually gives into when apologizing.

"Tommy, I'm sorry," the words leave him, and even to his own ears sound every bit as alien as they ever did. To Eames, hearing those words meant something, something significant, because he knew Arthur so very well. To Tommy, they are only words.

"Nah, it's nothin, man. Don't worry about it. Is what it is." Tommy shrugs, and sniffs hard. His brows are set over his narrowed eyes, and he doesn't take them off of the gym. Arthur allows the silence to settle between them, and even if he could think of something to say, he is not so sure it would even be worth the breath it took to say it. Tommy is the one to break that silence, and comes to his feet slowly. "Look, ah… thanks for your help. Getting me into Sparta, and all that… I'm gonna make you your money, it'll be worth your while, but I got things from here."

Arthur's elbows meet his knees, and his head hangs between his shoulders. He looks up at him. "Tommy, look—"

"No, I got this. Trust me," Tommy finally is able to meet Arthur's eyes, and when they do, something crumbles a little on the inside. Tommy seems huge from where he is standing, almost looming over the other man. He lingers only a moment, as if there is something else he wants to say, but decides it is not worth it. When he starts to walk off, Arthur comes to his feet calls him name one more time.

"Everybody fucks up. Makes mistakes, and says shit they regret," he says, softly. Tommy nods repetitively, sucking his bottom lip under his teeth and biting down, a dismissive gesture. This time, it is Arthur who turns to leave. "Even you."

…

Arthur apologized Tommy's way, so to speak. He has done everything to the letter, bent things, including things about himself, to try and speak in a language Tommy can understand. The day in the park was near two weeks ago, and two weeks alone in limbo is enough to drive anyone to a breaking point. Tommy has not budged, and Arthur—still being Arthur—has never been one to chase after someone. Eames was the one who did that. Eames was the one who would always keep trying no matter how angry he had managed to make Arthur, and use every weapon in his arsenal. Eames was good at that, too; charm was something he was never lacking, as well as the uncanny ability to manipulate situations and emotions that came with the territory of the Forger. Arthur is a point man, and logic is bred into him, a pedigree undeniable, and the consequence of his nature has always been a dispassionate approach to every job, and every mark. Deep down, he knows that he is going to need to do his best to disregard that innate logic, and stop dealing in blacks and whites. He is going to need to find the middle ground, the space between Eames and Tommy, and tap into it if he is ever going to break this spell.

In a situation similar to this, what now feels like years upon years ago, Ariadne's advice had been for him to try to incorporate elements of his relationship with Eames into Tommy's reality. On several occasions, this plan, however perfectly executed, had either failed entirely or backfired on him. Without Eames there, Arthur is a different Arthur. At times, he almost seems boring to himself, and that makes it all the more difficult—the Eames in Tommy only comes out every so often, and without that spark Arthur seems to just blend into the grey and mundane background of limbo. He knows he will have to do a little better than that.

He has waited two very long weeks, and Tommy has made no effort to contact him, and so Arthur intends to give him what he seems to want the most; to be unfettered from everyone he knows. He is like a wounded animal that way, and Arthur knows better than to cage him. He doesn't bother going to the bar, or to the diner; with less than a week until Sparta begins Arthur knows exactly where Tommy will be.

Colt's is not empty, but it may as well be. It is almost closing time, and only the attendant is still in the front of the building. The projection nods to where Tommy is in the back, and Arthur follows the dull rhythm of impact into a smaller back room, where Tommy and his father are doing drills involving one-armed push-ups. They're impressively intimidating, and at first, neither of them even notice Arthur has entered the room. Then Paddy looks up.

Arthur has seen this man before—it takes a moment to recall, but he realizes it was in a box of old belongings of the late Edward Padraic Eames: a little older, a little rougher, but the likeness is undeniable.

"Can I help you with something?" His voice is a harsh rasp, a grumble, a polite growl. Arthur is perplexed, taken aback—he wonders if that is what Eames' father sounded like when he was still alive.

"Ah—yes, Mr. Conlan," he says, snapping out of it. "I understand you are Tommy's father. I'm Arthur Coleman."

Paddy regards him hesitantly, suspiciously even. "A friend?"

"His agent, or—I was. Actually, I have some forms here for him to sign," Arthur reaches into his coat and produces a manila envelope, and passes it to Paddy, patiently allowing the other man to scan briefly over the paperwork. The old man's brows furrow a little bit, and he leans in—then they shoot up, and he glances back at Arthur. Suspicion mingles with surprise on his worn features.

"You're signing over your commission."

"Yeah."

"Why?" the question is so blunt that it actually forces Arthur's mouth to quirk, in that way it does when he is holding back a smartass remark. He is not accustomed to explaining himself to projections.

"He's a friend of mine. I never wanted a commission."

Paddy looks like he is considering this, and finally gives a little shrug, and calls Tommy over. Tommy's head snaps up, and his face is red, expression rather murderous, but he complies, and makes his way over to Arthur with that defensive swagger. His father passes him the envelope, and Tommy wordlessly snatches it up, flipping through the papers. When Paddy does not immediately leave, he shoots the old man a nasty scowl.

"Don't you got somethin' to do?" the words are sheer venom, and Paddy's eyes drop to the floor. He leaves, quietly, saying nothing in response to Tommy's casual cruelty. Tommy's eyes fly from paragraph to paragraph, but he gets impatient, and waves it up and down after a minute. "So? What the fuck is this?"

"It's an amendment to our contract," Arthur replies coolly, producing a pen. "Sign it."

Tommy's scowl deepens, and gives the papers another look, taking the time to read them now. After a moment, "You're giving me your commission, but keeping me on the insurance, and in the game."

"That's what it says," is his dry remark.

Tommy snorts, and shakes his head. He scratches his signature on several marked lines, and hands it back to him. "So that's it. You're just handing over your cut." Arthur flicks him an annoyed look, but does not let himself be provoke by the utter ungrateful sneer in Tommy's tone. He tucks the folder back into his coat, and turns to leave.

"It was never about the money," he says, walking away.

"The fuck was it about, then?" Tommy snaps, before Arthur can get too far away from him. Arthur stops, and slowly turns to meet the other's distrusting glare. He shrugs.

"It was about you."

"Gotta funny way of showing it."

"I think I just did," is Arthur's matter-of-fact reply, and when Tommy says nothing he nods to him, and turns to leave again. Behind him is silence, almost all the way to the door of the little private room. Finally,

"Yo, Arthur," Tommy's tone has changed, so slightly than unless someone knew him they wouldn't notice that the aggression has left it. Arthur just barely glances over his shoulder as his hand closes on the knob, and from the corner of his eye can see the fight seeping out of the other man, surrendered perhaps a little reluctantly. Nevertheless, Tommy continues begrudgingly, "Thanks."

…

The week before Sparta is quiet. Arthur does not see or hear from Tommy, save once, when they pass one another in a convenience store one morning. Arthur had stopped in for a coffee and bottled water for his morning run. He is almost embarrassed to see Tommy there, or rather, that Tommy catches him in a pair of sweats and a hoodie; before his shave, even. Ridiculous, yes, but there is still Eames inside of Tommy, and Tommy seems to get the same kicks out of seeing Arthur off-guard and disheveled as Eames would.

What is perhaps even more ridiculous is that Arthur feels the need to keep up his work-out routine in this subconscious purgatory. Without Tommy around him this entire world seems to be every bit the mundane blank slate that Ariadne and Cobb had described of their experience in limbo. Sometimes when he knows he is alone, Arthur will venture to the very edge of the city and change the architecture around a little, just to make sure he is still mostly in control. Sometimes, when he is very, very alone, he will create some of the places that hold his most precious memories with Eames, and stand inside them for a little while, just to feel their ghosts brush past him, and remind him of why he is here.

From what Arthur can determine by the weather patterns, and the changes in the colors and the light, is that Tommy's mood is that of a dark, swelling anger, even more focused than before. He is closing deeper within himself, hardening his outside so that when the time comes, he will challenge his brother, and not hesitate to take him out. The time for giving Tommy his space is soon to be over, whether Arthur wants to or not. Arthur knows exactly what plays out when Tommy's anger is left unchecked, but this next move must be very precise—should he make the wrong move, or even the right move too soon, the world will crumble from beneath them.

And so now he finds himself at the bar again, in a booth alone this time, wondering exactly what the Hell to do next. The rain pelting against the windows makes it dark outside, but it isn't late—it's about halfway through happy hour, and he only came here to calm his nerves, and clear his head. He has been nursing his scotch for the best part of an hour now, and nothing has come to him. Ariadne would probably disapprove of him coming to a bar to formulate a plan. Her name runs through his head, briefly, and her last words of advice follow suit. He reaches into his coat pocket, and produces a stack of photos—they are not real, at least not in life, because no one was around to take a picture; but they are forever in his memory, and he may dream them up whenever he likes, and admire them for a while.

He lays them down side by side on the table, and reaches for his drink with one hand, and picks up the first picture with his other. It is a football game—who was playing who and where is kind of a blur, but the memory inside is crystal clear. Eames is wearing a red hat, standing up next to Arthur with an arm looped around his neck, pulling him down into an awkward hug with his expression frozen in the middle of a loud, heartfelt laugh. The next few shots are of them on the job, seated around the table with very serious looks on their faces, concentrating on something outside the shot, probably Cobb briefing them. Arthur has his notepad, and Eames is just listening, rather intently. Before them on the table, beside a stack of papers and a laptop, is an empty box of take-out. Sushi, to be specific—

_"Eames," Arthur is desperately trying to make sure his paper stack is absolutely straight, and in impeccable order. Eames is not as concerned with the paper stack as Arthur is and he has been eyeballing the sushi for the last five minutes. "Eames, you eat that last piece of sushi and it's going to get ugly, fast."_

_"You're going to have to choose between order, and the California roll," Eames says, and picks the last piece up delicately between his thumb and forefinger. "Quickly Arthur, you don't have all day," Eames manages to get the piece of sushi almost all the way in his mouth when Arthur is suddenly in front of him, expression flat, and rather determined. Slowly, he removes it, and decides to negotiate. "Here, I'll bite off half."_

_"Wasabi first," _

_"Arthur, you are so spoiled," Eames mutters, as he dips it in the wasabi concoction, and brings it back to his mouth, taking only half in a bite, and then reaching over to set the other half in Arthur's mouth. Arthur's hands are occupied by two stacks of papers at this point, and so he has to bend awkwardly to receive his half of the bite, but he does, and gets a taste of Eames' fingers as he does so. _

_"Thanks."_

_"You're so welcome," _

_Arthur turns, and only then realizes that both Ariadne and Dom staring at him. He frowns, "What?"_

_"That was in his mouth," Ariadne says, as if perhaps Arthur had not been privy to this information. "Like, all the way in his mouth before you ate it."_

_"That's disgusting," Dom mutters, going back to his own research. "You just ate out of Eames' mouth."_

_Arthur finds himself coloring, but protests indignantly, "He bit off half, what's the—"_

_"After he'd put the whole thing in his mouth," Ariadne insists, upper lip curled in mock disgust and a smile trying to break through. "Like, set it on his tongue with intent to chew. The saliva was flowing and everything."_

_"He did not!" _

_"I did, it did touch my tongue before I took it out again. You did kind of eat out of my mouth," Eames informs him, as if he is every bit as disgusted as the others, when really he is relishing in Arthur's chagrin. He shrugs, and takes his seat again. "Bit like a baby bird."_

_Arthur can only stand there, rather mortified, and just before he is about to unleash a rather colorful string of curses, Yusuf stirs in the corner, and looks up from his calculations, rather amused. _

_"Well it's not like Eames' mouth is bloody terra incognita, now, is it? Not for Arthur, anyway."_

_"Good point."_

_"People," Cobb says, firmly. "We're professionals, let's try and act like it."_

It takes Arthur a moment to realize he is grinning, and he sets the print down, not wanting to get anymore lost in those memories than he already is—but he misses them, so dearly. He misses the gentle nature of Eames, the laughter. He misses the joy Tommy lost a long time ago, and now it only surfaces for seconds at a time before he smothers it again. The grin fades, and he reaches up to massage his forehead, rubbing his fingertips deep into the bone, as if somehow it will help to ground him again. He doesn't notice that the rain outside has stopped, until he hears the shuffle of fabric, and the squeal of wet shoes on tile.

"You're here early," It is Tommy's voice, and Eames' face, hovering just over him at the booth, and he freezes. He does not unfreeze fast enough to stop Tommy from snatching one of the pictures up. Just before he is able to reach up and snatch it back, Tommy's face changes, and what could have been a potential smile turns into a frown. "What's all this?"

"Mine," Arthur's reply is short, noncommittal, and as he pockets the stack he waits on the edge of an anxiety attack to see if Tommy recognized himself. It would be difficult, considering the differences in build, and the lapses in time, but not impossible.

"Alright, alright," Tommy says after a moment, and Arthur exhales—he didn't realize he had been holding his breath. As much as Tommy seemed to have wanted to retreat from the subject, he hesitantly returns to it, as if he cannot quite dismiss it as quickly as he wanted to. "Who is that? In your pictures?" A poor attempt at a casual tone.

"A friend of mine. He's dead," Arthur does his best to squash anymore attempts to casually approach the subject. "What are you doing here?" Tommy stands there, mutely, and unconsciously shifts one of his feet to the side, as if he cannot decide whether to make a quick getaway or actually sit down and answer the question. Arthur can read Tommy as well as he could read Eames, and he always could tell when a little nudging was in order. "Did something happen today?"

Tommy purses his lips around his toothpick, and exhales hard through his nose, sitting down heavily across from Arthur. He is drumming his forefinger into the tabletop, slow and deliberate, as if he is giving himself a countdown to find the right words. Arthur reaches for his drink, and lets him have another moment. Then,

"Marco Santos took a tumble bout three days ago," Tommy's eyes slide to the side, and remain there, slightly unfocused. "He's out. Somebody pulled some strings, and bumped Brendan Conlan into his spot."

Arthur has been waiting for this conversation, although it usually happens at the tournament itself. "Your brother."

"Yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Tommy's tone is all but accusing.

"No," Arthur drags out the word, slowly, wondering what would bring Tommy to the conclusion that he had something to do with it. "No, I wouldn't." Tommy's studies him a moment, then just shrugs, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Tommy responds automatically, eyes downcast and finger still drumming. "I gotta fight him, not kill him."

"But there's something there," Arthur continues. "If you were comfortable about it, you wouldn't be here telling me." Tommy snorts, and rolls his eyes, dismissively. "So you're comfortable with the idea of unleashing all that rage on your brother, which you know you will so don't bother to deny it, and beating him to a bloody pulp?"

"No, I'm comfortable with the idea of beating Brendan Conlan down, that's all it is."

"So then…" Arthur raises his brows, and waits for the explanation. Tommy shrugs.

"I don't know, man, I was hoping maybe you'd go up there with me. Keep me in check or something."

"You really think you're gonna snap?"

"I don't want to be a liability." The words are spoken quickly, a confession of sorts, surrendered to the other before the 'Tommy' part of his brain could stop him. Arthur is moved by them, to say the least; moved by how Tommy maintains eye contact with him. There is a plea in there somewhere, hidden behind a wall of intensity. It is somewhat intimidating; there is a connection here Arthur has not made before, in every other scenario, and now that he has it, he understands he must proceed more delicately than ever before. The realization makes Arthur anxious, but it also fills him with warmth he has not felt in the equivalent of decades. Slowly, and only fractions at time, things are finally beginning to change.


End file.
